Dear Mr. green It’s been three minutes since I put down ‘The fault in our stars’ and I am I’m filled with an urgent need to weep.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not a crier, so its all very new to me. I don’t cry at the movies. I don’t cry over boys who I break up with menacingly.
The last time I wept was when I was in the hospital abound by pain from the syringes darted into my veins. But it was mostly because of the physical hurt and therefore a legitimate occasion to cry.
But right now, I find it hard to describe my indisposition to anyone, heck even me.
I want to weep not because Gus fades into a star. Sure, the gravity of his eulogy for Hazel has the power to lacerate a piranha.
My affliction, as it appears has little to with the way, the book ends. It is the gross realization of the fact that it has ENDED. And it will take me a long while to find anything as engaging as this.
TFIOS has transported me to the third space, your characters experience over the phone. Except, I’m a real person and I don’t know exactly how to end this paragraph with a punchy, Hazel one-liner.
Writing superlatives about this book and would be extremely superficial. So let me just sum it up in two words.
Thank you. For this insightful journey into the damaged which reads brilliantly.
Thank you for allowing me to spend the last 90 hours in the most meaningful way I could have.
Thank you, for reminding me that I am more blessed than I know for a healthy body and a working mind. Although at this point, I must be sounding crazy to you. Don’t I?
But more importantly, thank you for immortalizing death through words. And rendering words immortal. It is rare to come across an author who quotes Shakespeare, Parminedes and facebook posts elegantly in one book